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Where lives the man that has not tried How mirth can into folly glide, And folly into sin!

Walter Scott

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Walter Scott
Age: 61 †
Born: 1771
Born: August 15
Died: 1832
Died: September 21
Baronet Scott
Biographer
Historian
Judge
Lawyer
Linguist
Literary Critic
Musicologist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Translator
Edinburgh
Scotland
Walter Skott
Jedediah Cleishbotham
Laurence Templeton
Somnambulus
Malachi Malagrowther
Sir Walter Scott
Bart.
Sir Walter Scott
Sir Walter Scott
1st Baronet
Great Magician
The Great Unknown
Life
Glide
Mirth
Folly
Tried
Sin
Lives
Men

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For Love will still be lord of all.
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Faces that have charmed us the most escape us the soonest.
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Welcome as the flowers in May.
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Real valor consists not in being insensible to danger but in being prompt to confront and disarm it.
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Profan'd the God-given strength, and marr'd the lofty line.
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We are like the herb which flourisheth most when it is most trampled on.
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I am she, O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the milky mothers of the herd.
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A lawyer without history or literature is a mechanic, a mere working mason if he possesses some knowledge of these, he may venture to call himself an architect.
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High minds, of native pride and force, Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse Fear, for their scourge, means villains have, Thou art the torturer of the brave!
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Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow.
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Greatness of any kind has no greater foe than a habit of drinking.
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I will tear this folly from my heart, though every fibre bleed as I rend it away!
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Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!
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Hurry no man's cattle you may come to own a donkey yourself
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Here is neither want of appetite nor mouths, Pray heaven we be not scant of meat or mirth.
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You will, I trust, resemble a forest plant, which has indeed, by some accident, been brought up in the greenhouse, and thus rendered delicate and effeminate, but which regains its native firmness and tenacity, when exposed for a season to the winter air.
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Never was flattery lost on a poet's ear a simple race, they waste their toil for the vain tribute of a smile.
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Oh, poverty parts good company.
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Thus aged men, full loth and slow, The vanities of life forego, And count their youthful follies o'er, Till Memory lends her light no more.
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The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have know a better day.
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